


24 Long-Stem Roses, Royal Blue

by stellarpoint



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bromance, Fluff, Gen, John is Sweet, M/M, Sherlock Likes Flowers, nothing but fluff, possible pre-slash - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarpoint/pseuds/stellarpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John brings Sherlock flowers.</p>
<p>Sherlock wants to know why, and seeing as how John won't tell him, he's just going to have to bloody well figure it out on his own, isn't he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	24 Long-Stem Roses, Royal Blue

**Author's Note:**

> All fluff and rambling. No Beta, no Brit-Pick, and inspired by my own insipid boredom in an attempt to prevent wall-shooting and drape-climbing.

“Here.”

A shadowy grey shape took up residence in Sherlock’s periphery, but the sharp clink of…glass? Ceramic? Stoneware? Failed to draw his attention away from the lens of his microscope. Instead he continued to stare doggedly down its length at a single strand of cotton fiber, fiddling with the aperture of his machine in a feint of great concentration. 

Even with all of his attention carefully averted to his latest project he could still feel John’s presence, warm and unyielding at his shoulder, waiting patiently for acknowledgment. The familiarity of it might have been comfortable at another time or place, but as it was Sherlock’s mood was spiky and inconsistent, sabotaged by the utter lack of case in a way that made even the remains of a popped thread from Mycroft’s waistcoat under his scrutiny completely dull, dull, dull.

But he wouldn’t tell John that. There would be no satisfaction in it.

Another moment of silence passed and John sighed out a breath that insinuated great forbearance on his part (no doubt realizing that he was being purposefully ignored), grocery bags rustling in his hands as he shifted around Sherlock’s stool and to the fridge, placing the bags on the tile floor and stooping one by ordered one to tuck perishables away into the fridge. Sherlock listened for a moment, cataloging the distinct shuffle of a carton of eggs and the soft glug of dairy creamer before deciding that John was enough occupied to be interrupted.

“What’s this?” His voice came in sharp reprimand, flapping his right hand in the direction of the whatever-it-was that John had carefully put just in and just out of his line of sight.

John turned from the refrigerator, artificial light glancing off his skin and into the corners of Sherlock’s eyes in an unflattering way as he murmured a particularly casual, “Hm? What’s what?”

“This.” Sherlock repeated testily, wriggling his fingers at the corner of the table.

John’s voice huffed in amusement, an almost laugh that made the upturned corners of his mouth apparent in his voice as he answered, “What, you’re too lazy to even turn your head now?”

“I’m busy.” He snapped, twirling the dial on his microscope with a flourish to illustrate his point, watching as the black thread danced in the magnification and then settled, ropey and frayed in the center of his sight. “I don’t have time for banal interruptions.”

“You’ve got a case on, then?” The refrigerator door squelched shut and John scooped up the empty and half full bags from the floor, carrying them over to the counter across the table from Sherlock to put away a box of what looked like…oatmeal. Horrifying.

“Just because there’s no case does not mean that I’m not doing something vitally important.” Sherlock lectured, crossing his ankles beneath the table so that his weight shifted just enough for the odd shape on his right to smear further into focus. “Surely if you’d ever bothered to entertain a thought that was even remotely remarkable, you would recognize the signs.”

“Ah,” John mused, putting the last of the shopping away into the cupboard and wadding up the plastic bags in his fists to toss under the sink haphazardly without so much as commenting on the jar full of dead rat and formaldehyde that Sherlock had secured away in the same cupboard just that morning. “So it’s like that, then, is it?”

“It’s like what, John?” The way his flatmate’s given name slurred from between Sherlock’s lips said ‘danger’ all on its own, but John did not sound the least bit perturbed as he answered amicably with a shrug, “No worry, they’ll keep.”

“They?”

John stepped out of the kitchen, and Sherlock’s pale irises were sorely tempted to slide with him and encompass the thing-not-thing sitting just to the right of him. But he was nothing if not perfectly in control, and he schooled himself again into stillness, listening as John folded into his armchair and took up the paper.

Moments ticked by, Sherlock’s ears pricked to follow the telltale crackles and pops of the newspaper’s turning pages as he counted and recounted the frazzled edges of twine beneath his microscope, concluding with some little satisfaction that empirical evidence proved the thread had indeed burst and twisted from its fabric by the sheer fact of Mycroft’s rotundity in motion. He spent a moment constructing the perfect jibe to bite upon Mycroft’s next appearance—“It might be wise to yield to fate and let your waistcoats out again, before they’re rendered little more than rags by your expanding gut…”—before declaring the experiment a success, and flipping the switch to snuff out the backlight with a practiced hand.

He listened quietly for another minute, and then, confident that John was absorbed in the Leisure section of the paper, Sherlock turned finally to the next mystery.

Standing proudly at the corner of the kitchen table was a deep green vase—ceramic, undoubtedly ceramic; it was opaque, and sculpted, and elegant in its simplicity—full to bristling with two dozen of the most beautiful and peculiar roses that Sherlock had ever laid eyes on. While it was true that beauty was hardly an objective matter, in the case of those particular blooms Sherlock doubted subjectivity, finding it radically difficult to believe that the flowers with their full blossoms, plush curves, and intimate layers could be anything less than utterly captivating. What was more, they had been dyed a deep and abiding blue that was rich to the point of nobility, and reminded him emphatically of the fading silk of his favourite blue dressing gown.

One dexterous finger stretched out of its own accord, brushing the lip of a petal in the rose nearest him, an electric tingle running the length of his spine at the velvety soft texture against the whorl of his fingertip. His hand withdrew with a plaintive yearning for more, being settled deliberately in his lap before he allowed confusion and frustration at once to crease his features.

“What’s this, then?” He repeated finally, the growl in his voice plainly evident.

“Hm?” John’s head turned from his reading to look half over his shoulder at Sherlock—Did he realize that he made that insipid little questioning noise each time his attention was drawn away from something plebian? Did he know that it was irritating and unnecessary, when he would only look and answer his own barely asked question? Did he do it out of spite?—taking in the flowers and Sherlock’s face with only mild interest before turning back to his paper and answering finally, “The roses? They’re for you. I said they were for you, didn’t I?”

Sherlock made a vexed noise in the back of his throat, throwing himself onto his feet and throttling the vase in his one handed grip before marching through to the sitting room and slamming it down onto the coffee table with force just shy of cracking the thing. He only meant it to be dramatic, but in the moment the violence was reinforced with an explosion of satisfaction in the hollow of his chest. However, it was somewhat less satisfying in that John didn’t start, and indeed barely moved, only flicking bright eyes upwards to meet the icy blue ones narrowed in his direction as Sherlock towered ominously.

“What is the _meaning_ of it, John?”

Minute surprise lit the corners of John’s eyes, the late afternoon light streaming in through the window to light the arch of his eyebrow to the perfect advantage, declaring, ‘What on earth goes on in your marvelous brain, you twat?’ without the necessity of saying it.

“Meaning of it? I just thought—“

“You just thought? Just thought what, exactly, John? Do tell me what goes on in that fuzzy head of yours that you would bring me home _flowers_ —“ He spat the word as if it were a synonym for _Anderson_ , “—particularly these flowers, today, now, and then try to ply my attention with them when I am clearly very busy.”

John’s eyebrow remained quirked, but there was no amusement left in either the shine of his eyes or the line of his lips, the latter pressed together in distinct distaste. “What, you don’t like roses?”

The utter calm of his voice was grating.

“No. Yes.” Sherlock waved a hand manically, physically brushing the necessity for an actual answer out of his way as if it irked, “The point isn’t whether or not I like them, it is, as the old dogma states, the _intent_ of the gift that is the primary variable.”

“I’m fairly certain no one has ever said that.”

The return of a hint of laughter to John’s tone was vexing, and Sherlock growled unhappily low in his throat. “Why? Tell me immediately.”

The answering sigh was unsatisfying, and John shuffled the newspaper in his hands, eyes returning to the blocky black script, as he murmured, “No I don’t think I will, thanks.”

“Why not?” Sherlock blinked back surprise, caught off guard by the tired lack of compliance in John’s tone and face, and the way it rankled with the rippling anger washing back and forth beneath the surface of Sherlock’s skin.

“Because you’ve not had a case, and you’re clearly picking a fight over it, and I want no part in it. Besides, I’m only halfway through the paper.”

“What does that have to do with _anything_?” He grumbled, but being called on his irritable attitude had taken some of the fire out of the statement, and his chest.

“I’m busy, Sherlock. How about you figure it out on your own. You’re good at that.”

The compliment, even undercut by vague sarcasm stirred something in Sherlock that narrowed his eyes again, watching John for a long minute before his voice leapt between his lips, sharp but careful, “Why would I be bothered to ‘figure out’ anything as mundanely unhelpful as the reasoning behind twenty-four long-stem royal-blue roses?”

John’s eyes flicked up from his reading again, an almost sly smile broadening his lips as he murmured provocatively, “Oh, you wouldn’t. But it’s me you can’t figure, don’t take it out on the poor flowers.”

The challenge was unreasonably insulting, and Sherlock’s eyes widened in disbelief at John’s audacity to insinuate—no, to outright _state_ that a dirty-blonde ex-army doctor’s motives could be convoluted enough that _he_ , Sherlock Holmes, could not deduce them irrevocably.

“ _I can_.” He grit out between his teeth, words that would cut if words could.

“Excellent.” John sounded truly chuffed to have riled him (or maybe that was just the fact that the badgering had reached its inevitable end) and he turned his page deliberately before adding, “Compile your theories, and when you’re ready I’ll promise to tell you honestly whether you’ve hit the mark or not.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened to protest the subjectivity of honesty, but closed it again without uttering a word. There was no point. John was a simple man who operated on a black and white scale of his convictions. If he knew why he had bought Sherlock flowers—and he certainly seemed to think that he did—then he would not besmirch Sherlock’s beloved deductive reasoning, his _truth_ , to lie to him, nor would John likely see the point.

One of John’s many admirable traits, and one that Sherlock could only wish others suffered as readily.

“Fine. That is—acceptable.” The words came like silk through his lips, and he neglected to wait for any sign of comprehension from John as John neglected to give one, instead stepping backwards onto the corner couch cushion and squatting, bringing steeped fingers to his lips as he considered the flowers before him.

Fifteen minutes saw John’s paper read and folded neatly back onto the coffee table, the only noise his shifting in his chair as he settled comfortably, the tension from his long day at the clinic and shopping encounter with the pin and chip machine (which he had never really properly got over) easing in the customary allotment of time. At twenty minutes the telly flicked on with its characteristic stutter, and the repetitively outlandish noises of some dreadfully inept game show eased into the flat and all its silence. 

In an hour John made dinner, clanking about in the kitchen with an admirably practiced ease, managing not to disturb the Consulting Detective on the couch with the crackle of packages and the soft susurrus of boiling water. In another thirty minutes he was holding a plate of Alfredo under Sherlock’s nose until the latter made a bitingly irritated noise in the back of his throat and snatched it from steady doctor’s hands, shoveling noodles into his mouth with both urgency and impatience. Sherlock inhaled the dish without really tasting it, and then settled the empty plate on the floor where his feet ought to have been.

The rest of the night went quietly, too, tea set before him to go cold before he finally choked it down in an attempt to belay waste, programs on the telly flashing in and out of his awareness without being calculated or quantified. Dishes were heaped into the sink with the repetitive clack of ceramic and enamel, marking John’s final task of the evening, every evening.

At nine o’clock Sherlock shifted his feet far enough apart so that he could scoop beneath the couch and pluck out his violin case without unbalancing himself, settling it reverently on the cushions before unsnapping the clasps and lifting it to his chin, using the bow to coax a sweet, low sound from the Stradivarius. He played admirably, even for Sherlock, as was evident by John’s cutting off his program and settling in his chair to listen to the romantic whisperings of Sherlock’s classical repertoire.

It was at quarter to ten that John finally pushed himself to his feet, standing silently a moment before asking over the quietly crooning notes of the violin, “Are you just going to crouch there all night?” Sherlock didn’t deign to respond, only shifting his chin in the cradle of the violin to indicate he’d heard anything at all.

“Are you still thinking about it?”

Sharp blue eyes snapped open, somehow glaring at John without even the strain of narrowing. Full of fire, and ice.

“Alright then, fine. I’ve an early day tomorrow, so I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight.” His voice was repentant, and as ever, slightly amused.

Sherlock didn’t watch as John’s slippered feet padded up the stairs, only sliding his eyes closed again and straining his ears for the chink of John’s bedroom door closing, the groan of the floorboards, the creak of the bed. He waited a long moment, or two, and when he was absolutely sure John was starting to drift off under the strain of a long day, Sherlock opened his eyes, smiled affectionately at the blue flowers in their vase, and then tortured a glass-shattering shriek from the instrument wrung between his dexterous hands.

Vengeance would be his, if only in the piercing song of a yowling tomcat wrought from his violin.

 

* * *

  


The morning woke Sherlock with a glancing beam of sunlight dancing merrily across his eyelids.

He scowled at it, as if his displeasure would dampen it sufficiently enough to continue his rest, and flopped a long arm across his face to shield himself from the audacity of a London that thought to wake him before noon. 

Rest, however, was not to return, the scent of Earl Grey tea still lingering in John’s mug on the table to his right and mixing with the cloyingly sweet roses to stimulate his brain into wakefulness. There was something else, too—a hint of aftershave and shampoo—clinging to the blanket draped halfway across his chest which had been folded along the back of the couch when he’d dozed off the previous evening.

Obviously John’s spirits had not been so dampened by the solo of banshees Sherlock had conjured up in the sitting room in the wee hours of the morning that he hadn’t cared to flop the covering haphazardly over his long friend on his way to work.

Good. That was good.

A smile stole Sherlock’s lips in spite of himself, and he curled in the cocoon of the blanket for another few moments, warm, and satisfied. When no transformative experience was forthcoming, however, he tore the blanket back and came to a sit in one elegant exertion, stretching long limbs before resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands to contemplate his current experiment.

A moment passed, the morning sunlight much more wonderful to the furls of flower petals than the angles of his face, and finally Sherlock crossed the threshold of temptation in his mind that allowed him to touch, plucking one of the roses from its fellows and twisting the stem so that it spun in a dizzying circle before settling in his hand.

Bringing the bloom nearer and inhaling was blissfully rich, sparking prettily in his reptilian brain in a way that perfumes and chemicals couldn’t replicate with any degree of accuracy, and he had the urge—if only for a moment—to roll in it, absorb it, until it was a part of him, and he a part of it.

That, however, was patently ridiculous.

Sherlock dragged the petals slowly, gently, over the crest of his bottom lip, and back again when the sensation was surprisingly pleasurable, relishing the velvety softness more completely than was possible on the tips of well-worn fingers. It seemed that, for all the data was hardly relevant at all, the flower had a surprising abundance of raw value.

What other secrets was it hiding?

Sherlock frowned down at it for a moment, and then his expression eased, feet coming under him in a great leap of interest as he marched to his microscope, collected his notebook and a box of slides, and then proceeded to utter disassemble his quarry. 

By the time afternoon rolled around, his notes read thusly:

  


>   
> _24 Long-stem Roses, Dyed Royal Blue (Originally White)_  
>  1 Ceramic Vase, Glazed Forrest Green (Of little to no consequence.)
> 
> _Average number of petals per bloom: 33  
>  Average length: 73cm_
> 
> _Examination of the solution in which the roses are set yields the discovery of a market brand ‘plant food’. While marginally extending the longevity of the plant, I have with my own materials composed a hydroponic solution tailored to the exact specifications of the flora, which should far prolong its existence._
> 
> _Tests show that white roses have absorbed a floral dye (research indicates that food colouring is also possible, but not the case here) over the period of 28 hours through their stems, which were then cut diagonally under running water, successfully removing the remaining immediate traces of the procedure for retail._
> 
> _Thorns are easily sharp enough to pierce skin.  
>  Rose thorns would be an excellent method of poisoning if subject to more control…_
> 
> _Thorns are not poisoned._
> 
> _John’s bank statement reveals a shocking expenditure of ninety-six pounds from a little florist’s shop relatively nearby to the surgery. The cost signifies that the meaning of the gift is weighty—no, conjecture—means something important to John. He doesn’t waste money needlessly; consult haircut, clothing, and off-brands in the cupboards…_
> 
> _Blue rose tea tastes terrible._
> 
> _They do, however, look splendid pressed between books.  
>  Doubtlessly also not the intent._
> 
> _Despite the multitudes of experiments possible with flora, vase (for display purposes), personal delivery, personal purchase, all indicate that gift is not for research or experimental purposes. That leaves…_
> 
> _Sentiment.  
>  Blast sentiment._
> 
> _But which sentiment?_
> 
> _Must go out before John gets home and replace tested flowers._

 

The new flowers looked every bit as elegant as the old, and Sherlock hoped fervently that John would fail to notice any difference, having cleaned up all signs of his experiments from the kitchen table and bins. The little florist’s shop and little florist had both been accommodating, and while he hated the idea of John being upset at having his sentiment carefully dissected, he had not thought John would mind Sherlock’s trying to replicate the effect in six new white roses which were cooling their heels in a bowl of indigo food dye on the counter.

He was perched on his stool thoughtfully watching them do—well, nothing—as he thought about the complexities of human emotion, especially that of rather pint-sized doctors, when John came home from work, announcing his presence with an easy sigh of relief.

Really not holding a grudge about the violin then. It was a mild respite.

“Hallo, Sherlock.” John’s voice was congenial, as always, entering the kitchen with easy steps and then a shoed stutter of uncertainty. “Oh. You. Went and bought more flowers?” Sherlock turned his head over his shoulder, light and life entering back into his glassy eyes as he met John’s and nodded.

“I thought I might try my hand at it. If my calculations are correct they will end a very specifically vibrant shade of violet.”

John nodded, still seeming confused, but setting it aside as he so often did. “What will you do with them, then?”

Sherlock just waved a hand in indifference. “These have no intention, John. They’re just flowers. You can give them to Missus Hudson, I suppose. Would she enjoy flowers? No, don’t answer that. I suppose she would.”

“Would she?” John’s blue eyes were sparkling, mirth brimming to spill out into the corners of his mouth in an expression that could only be called thinly veiled delight.

“Yes, of course.”

There’s silence a moment, comfortable, before John takes his smile with him to fetch the other kitchen stool, setting it across from Sherlock so that sitting they mirror each other, nearest arms up on the counter with fingertips almost touching the bowl of to-be-purple flowers, legs bent and angled slightly towards the cupboards, though their torsos squarely faced each other.

“So, have you figured it out, then?”

Sherlock looked up from where the flowers had once again claimed his attention, unable to take umbrage at John’s deliberately provocative question when he saw the attention he was being lavished with—a gentle smile, a teasing tone, but every bit of John’s consideration as if the world were their stools, their knees, their fingertips and nothing else.

“I…have theories.” He managed, diplomatically.

“Alright, let’s hear them.” John’s shoulders rolled back and relaxed at the same time as he moved his hands to scrub his palms against the knees of his trousers, finally leaning forward, easy but intent.

Sherlock sat up, drummed his fingers against the countertop in a brief, staccato rhythm, and then began.

“They’re from a little florist’s shop, around the corner from the clinic. They were grown in a private greenhouse, clean soil, nothing remarkable about it, and then cut, dyed from white using blue floral dye, cut again, and set out for sale.”

“True.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted, “Yes, John, I know. Please reserve your input for when it is warranted, I will need it then.” John’s smile was fond, and suppressed in an instant, nodding instead to show his understanding.

“You walked from the clinic to the florist, and then took the tube from the florist to Tesco before doing the shopping and walking home to the flat. You took less than an hour in all, so you’d seen the shop before, even been in, knew what you wanted, but you hadn’t planned on getting it yesterday, as evidenced by your route and the unwieldy—and frankly poorly planned—burden of both flowers and various food products. So, a premeditated gift, then, but not for any specific occasion.”

Sherlock’s fingers came together in front of him, index fingers applying pressure to his lips a moment to settle his thoughts before continuing.

“Half a dozen, even a dozen roses would have done for any gift, and these were special enough to warrant a boost in price over the already preposterous price of the flora in question, but you still chose two dozen exactly. Two dozen…” He frowned a moment, searching for something in his head and shaking it irritably as he came up with nothing, “It’s not a number of significance, other than the fact that flowers are sold in dozens, but still you didn’t think a dozen was quite enough, and so you made it two. This was important to you, personally.”

“But why?”

Sherlock considers John for a moment, and John opens his mouth to help him along, but Sherlock shakes his head again, frowning, but certain.

“It screams sentiment. Too much money, yours, to be unimportant, not in any way an experiment. This is a gesture. A gesture usually reserved for romantic partners,” John’s eyebrows begin a slow crawl up his forehead at the insinuation. “A blue rose itself indicates the flower is going to someone with nobility, of spirit or blood—quite the compliment, if considered—and in some cultures is defined as a hope for unattainable love.”

“Do you love me, John?”

Doctor Watson is flushed impossibly red in the time it takes Sherlock to utter the question, his jaw working with only a light and surely unintentional whine in the back of his throat before he crows a vehement, “No! That’s not! That isn’t! I didn’t know that—!” 

Sherlock’s smile splits his face nearly in two, and it isn’t until his chuckle has turned into a deep belly laugh that John is spluttering in indignation instead of shock, calling him a ‘twat’ and a ‘great bloody git’ before smiling himself, easing a nervous chuckle from his chest, and settling back in his seat still red as anything.

“Ah, no, John. I know you quite well enough to know that you couldn’t care less what a flower _means_. At least, not to anyone but you.”

Sherlock goes suddenly quiet, turning his head over his left shoulder to look at the proud stand of blue flowers, making John shift in his seat as he contemplates, though the silence is amicable. It’s with a much softer voice that Sherlock continues. “I think I know what these mean, to you, though.”

“They are not a natural occurrence. They are carefully constructed to be as they are. As such, you’d never seen them before. Your share of roses, certainly, as a relationship man—and one who’s been to a wedding at least once, even if only your sister’s—but never this colour. They were, and are to you, unique. They surprised you, captivated you with their strangeness, but most of all they reminded you of me…”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders back, gently. “They are a lovely gesture, and an apt match. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sherlock, but…”

One of his long-fingered hands begged silence, and John stopped, though the look on his face was delicately skeptical. “I know they are not a romantic gesture. Roses are not _always_ a romantic attachment, though that is frequently the case. They are commemorative, also. They can be for birthdays, anniversaries, congratulations…but none of these apply.” 

“You spent a great deal of time, effort, and money to bring me these, and I. I’m loath to admit it, but though I know why you brought me these particular blooms, I can’t manage a reason as to why you would bother.”

“What possessed you, John?” 

Sherlock’s voice sounded unintentionally maudlin, even to himself, and so he offered a barely-there smile in recompense, watching John, studying him, as if the answer could leap off of his face at any moment. Instead, however, John merely settled himself, trailing his fingertips across the white petals dipping out of the bowl on the table and asked quietly, “Why did you suggest giving these flowers to Missus Hudson?”

Sherlock blinked, puzzled, before replying solidly, “I don’t need them. I have two dozen of my own.”

John’s laugh came quietly, and his smile settled some of the apprehension in Sherlock’s chest. “Then why not a stranger on the street? Surely ‘specifically vibrant violet’ roses would brighten any one of their day’s.”

Sherlock paused, tried to think his way around to John’s train of thought. He contemplated. He cajoled the part of his brain that could observe and mimic human attachment. He found nothing, and frustrated he snapped, “I don’t care about them.”

“Exactly.”

Sherlock blinked again.

John sighed, but smiled with the corner of his mouth. “You don’t care about them. And you’re certainly not the type to be generous with yourself or your things just for the sake of it.” It sounded vaguely reprimanding, and at the same time incredibly fond. “But you do care about Missus Hudson, and a great deal more than you let on, which is already a very liberal amount.” 

“Gifts, flowers, they’re as much about esteem as anything. They mean that someone cares about you, in whatever way. That they’re thinking about you. I just thought you’d like them, and the thought that you might made them worth it.”

Sherlock sighed, frowning crookedly at his flatmate and his utterly simple emotional drivel. “Yes. No. I mean, both. You thought of me, and you thought I might like them, and that was appealing to you, yes. But there’s some bit you’re leaving out. Some bit of unbelievably altruistic idiocy that you haven’t already spouted in that little speech.”

“And what makes you think that?”

“You’re John Watson.”

John broke into a grin at the same moment Sherlock did, a little huff of laughter passing through his lips. Sherlock shook his head ever so slightly, though the smile stayed anyway, and completed the thought.

“That is like people. Albeit stupidly kind and generous people. But you aren’t, and there is some piece of the puzzle that is missing, and I am certain that it’s part of you. Something as unique as blue roses for the sake of blue roses.”

“If I tell you, will you promise not to be terribly disappointed?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why?”

John sighed, and cocking his head to look at Sherlock with smiling blue eyes he paused a moment and then asked, “Has anyone ever bought you flowers before?”

Sherlock thought on it, brain spinning, trying to think of an occasion in which he might have received flowers. Birthdays, recitals, sickbeds, successes…but his brain, for all its whirling came up blank. He blinked wide eyes at John, and shrugged. “I could have deleted it.”

John shrugged and nodded noncommittally, spreading his hands almost plaintively. “Yes, I suppose you could have. But it seemed a very real possibility that no one had ever bothered, and so I thought it was about time. Mayhap a little awkward from a flatmate/collegue/doctor, but then, who could be more qualified than that?”

“A florist?”

John laughed again, and Sherlock reveled a little in the sound, especially proud of John’s soft utterance of ‘twat’ once more before he got to his feet. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway. There you go, mystery solved.”

Sherlock let him turn his back and almost leave the kitchen before coming to his own feet, and in his most strident bass sniping, “That is by far the worst mystery and largest waste of my time that I could have possibly imagined. In fact, it is so terrible of a rouse that even my dizzying intellect couldn’t imagine it.”

“Hey, I had you distracted from your lack of a case for almost _a whole day_. You do know how utterly sad that is?”

“I hadn’t imagined you were that stupid. I was giving you the benefit of the doubt. I stand corrected.”

Their laughter was easy as they continued to gripe at each other, settling into their armchairs in a way that was impossibly easy, meaningless, and somehow absolutely right.

Still, Sherlock was a little disappointed. It hadn’t been a grand mystery, or even a good one. He hadn’t learned anything spectacular, and to be honest even what he’d learned of John was just a circumstantial specific of a trait he’d already discovered. Moronically kind. But as his eyes flicked to the array of flowers on the kitchen table, he couldn’t help smiling.

In some, very specific cases, perhaps even a bad reason was reason enough.


End file.
